So It Goes
by Valhalla
Summary: They leave the island on the sub in 1974. It's not a happy ending. Post-5x08. Daniel/Juliet; references to Dan/Charlotte, Juliet/Sawyer.


**Title:** So It Goes  
**Characters/Pairings:** Juliet/Daniel (references to Juliet/Sawyer, Dan/Charlotte)  
**Summary: **They leave the island on the sub. It's not a happy ending.  
**Rating:** T  
**Spoilers:** Up to 5x08.  
**Word Count:** 884.  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine.  
**A/N:** Written for Livejournal's lostsquee luau.

----

They dock in Port Orford, Washington -- early spring, 1974 -- and are whisked off the sub, Dharma security practically pushing them out the door. Then it's vague promises of future meetings before James fades off in one direction and Miles in the other, like any of them know where they're going.

Beside her, Daniel squints into the sun, hitching his backpack higher. (She knows, saw him burn the journal but pack the button-down shirt, the one still crusted with blood. It's repulsive, that knowledge, but almost soothing, though she's not really sure why.)

A hug seems too intimate; handshake too final. She settles on a shrug, thumbs hooked into the belt loops of her jeans.

"Maybe I'll look you up sometime."

A nod is all she gets in return.

----

The bus ticket is pocketed with ease, slides into her jacket -- too heavy for Miami's weather; she should have known -- without a second thought.

There's nothing here for her, now; she wipes at the sheen of sweat slicking her forehead, cheeks, neck and the heat's suddenly unbearable, too much.

She should have known, and why the hell did she think --

A tinny announcement, over the depot's loudspeaker; bus for New York now boarding.

It's not much, but it's something.

----

It's winter, and the season doesn't treat the city well.

They meet at a neighbourhood bar in St. Mark's -- dingy and dark; the perfect spot to be strangers, go unnoticed -- and he smokes now. That strikes her as a surprise, for some reason, as he draws back on his cigarette and blows blue-black smoke into the stale air, ripe with sweat and old, sticky beer.

"I saw Miles, last month. On 45th and 3rd. Don't think he noticed."

He looks like he could use a shower, and maybe a good meal. Too lean. Worse than on the island, she thinks, the irony too rich, turning her stomach.

She shrugs, smiles, fingers her rye and ginger, swirling the ice in her glass. "That's a coincidence."

"In this city ..."

He laughs, and the sound -- bitter, brittle -- swallows the end of his words.

----

She thumbs through his record collection a couple days later -- a paltry offering thrown into a milk crate -- in a crappy apartment in an even crappier part of town, and they left the island for this?

"It's my birthday next week," he announces out of the blue, tugging at one unravelling strand of his sweater, playing with the cuff, halfway between pouring them both drinks.

She turns towards him, the square cardboard of Petula Clark a welcome, heavy weight in her hands.

"Well happy birthday."

Manhattan's skyline twinkles through the living room window, like a promise; a guiding star that dimmed and died. He smiles, and it's the ghost of something happy.

"I'm not even born yet."

----

The sheets are twisted around her, tight, when she wakes; she sits up and clasps her knees. Says the words out loud just to make them real.

"I don't know what I'm doing."

His hand's at her back, branding her skin with heat, and his look says _I don't either_.

Both of them are too tired to care.

----

She's settled in the city now, and it only takes one afternoon to find the nearest public library. Hours pass as she pours over directories for cities that mean something. Albuquerque, Tampa -- the names blur and her fingertips turn dark with ink, but she doesn't find a listing.

She gets home just before supper and he's at the window, smoke curling from a barely-touched cigarette.

"It's July 2nd."

She's used to his non-sequiturs by now so she just stands in place, smiling absently, patient.

"She turned six today."

His face is blank; eyes dry. He doesn't cry anymore, but then again, neither does she.

----

That night it's another name she calls out in bed -- half in spite, half by accident -- and afterwards he turns from her, wordless, and slips from under the covers.

She tries not to notice his hands shaking as he pours himself a drink.

----

A few weeks later and it's the tail-end of a heatwave, their one lone fan rattling its discord in the background. She's curled on the couch, a new book -- on loan from the library; she makes a trip there every week -- perched on her knees.

He pushes the cover back a little to read the title; smirks when he sees it.

"Slaughterhouse-Five."

His hand flutters at his temple, brow creased in remembrance. "Billy Pilgrim, right? What is it, that he says?"

She looks up at him, face a mask, feeling a tug of pride that her expression doesn't break.

"So it goes."


End file.
